


Hoy por ti, mañana por mí.

by doomcake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BrOT4, Episode related fic, Episode: s01e03 Commodities, Gen, Hurt Porthos, Mild Hurt/Comfort, canon whump, hurt Aramis (not so canon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis took a hit during the fight with Meunier's men, but Porthos comes first.</p>
<p>(Or, a "what if Aramis was actually hurt" fic that takes place during "Commodities".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoy por ti, mañana por mí.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been a huge fan of the whole Musketeers story (book, movies, you name it) since oh, I don't know, my middle school years? I'm not THAT old, but that was about 15-20 years ago for me. Aramis has always been my favorite; my very first AOL email address (on dialup... OKAY YES MAYBE THAT OLD) had 'Aramis' in it. I also had an 8th grade geography project where I had to create an island. Mine was Musketeers-themed. No joke.
> 
> Anyway, the point is this: THE MUSKETEERS BBC SHOW HAS TURNED ME BACK INTO AN EARLY TEEN FANGIRL. HALP. This show is going to ruin my life, I swear. And this fandom is so lovely so far, I can't even--HI. YOU ALL ROCK.
> 
> So this fic spawned on a second (third?) watch-through of the series. During the fight with Meunier, just before Porthos gets axed, Aramis takes a blow to the ribs from a chain and makes a show of grimacing about it before he is SO DONE WITH ALL THE THINGS. And, well, Porthos drops, which is never a good thing. Being the shameless whump addict I am, I thought, HEY DIDN'T ARAMIS GET HURT TOO? So this is my answer to that thought.
> 
> Basically, lame episode tagfic is not the way I wanted to sink into this fandom, but I have had such a writing dry spell that I'll take what I can get. I'm just trying to get a feel for the character voices at this stage while I try to shake my work-ingrained professional voice (blargh this is what I get for BUSINESS WRITING AUGH WHY DID I THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA). Feel free to let me know how I'm doing!
> 
> (Title translates to "Today for you, tomorrow for me." ... I hope. My Spanish is pretty damn rusty. Please correct me if I am mistaken, haha.)

__

**_Hoy por ti, mañana por mí._ **

Once Aramis finishes tying the last neat stitch in Porthos’ shoulder, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Wiping his hands on a rag, he douses the now-closed wound with a bit of brandy from Athos’ estate’s cellar before he motions to Athos to help him bind the injury.  
  
“Will he be all right?” d’Artagnan asks, standing up straighter from his post at the door with interest.  
  
“He will need to rest and avoid moving it too much, but yes, I believe he will be fine,” Aramis replies, tucking in the loose edge of the bandage. They’ll fashion a sling once Porthos is no longer face-down on the table. “Here, Athos, help me move him over to the couch.”  
  
The second he tenses his stomach muscles to lift Porthos’ bulk, however, his world goes red hot and white, and he blinks back into awareness to see Athos’ stern face hovering inches away. Frowning in confusion, he suddenly realizes that he’s in a bed, and he doesn’t remember moving there. Athos releases a relieved breath and leans back in his seat.  
  
“He’s awake,” he calls through the open door, before he crosses his arms and props his dusty boots up on the bed next to Aramis’ face.  
  
“What happened?” Aramis asks, wrinkling his nose at the dirty soles of his friend’s boots. He moves to sit up, but a sharp pain shoots through his side and he hisses, thinking better of it.  
  
“I was hoping you could tell us,” Athos replies dryly. “One minute you’re about to help me move Porthos, and then suddenly you’re on the ground moaning and clutching at your gut like you’ve been shot.”  
  
Aramis presses a hand to his aching side, wincing as it causes the pain to sharpen. Even breathing hurts, and he thinks he can feel edges of his rib bones grinding together under his hand. They’re definitely bruised—likely cracked. There are fresh bandages wrapped around his middle, hidden under his shirt.  
  
“I didn’t realize I was hurt,” he says defensively, but then he remembers the fight, taking a hard blow to his ribs from a thick rusty chain—and then Porthos, on the ground, wheezing in agony. “… At least, not that badly,” he amends.  
  
“You’ve been out for two hours,” Athos says.  
  
“Two hours?” The amount of time triggers warning alarms in his head, and suddenly he sits up, injured ribs be damned. “Porthos!”  
  
“Easy, easy,” Athos says, removing his shoes from the bed and leaning forward to press Aramis back down. “He is resting. You should be, too.”  
  
Aramis takes a breath, winces as it tugs at his injury, but dutifully settles back into the dusty pillows of the bed.  
  
“You gave d’Artagnan a good scare.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says with an apologetic smile. “I truly did not realize the extent of my injury, or I would not have been so careless.”  
  
“How were you injured?” Athos asks. “I don’t recall seeing you get hurt.”  
  
“One of Meunier’s men—he had a chain. It was heavy and rusty, and he knew how to swing it,” Aramis explains, fingers still probing at his injury. He hisses again.  
  
“Stop touching it,” Athos orders, swatting at Aramis’ hand. “I’m surprised you let him get past your guard—those weren’t expert fighters.”  
  
“They were desperate enough,” Aramis says defensively. “They got Porthos too, don’t forget.”  
  
Athos nods, conceding the point. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted as d’Artagnan barges into the room.  
  
“Aramis! You’re awake!” he says with a bright smile. “How is your side? It looked painful.”  
  
“I should be all right,” Aramis replies, returning the grin. “Just a few cracked ribs, I think. Nothing a little rest won’t fix. I should be up and about before Porthos is able to travel.”  
  
“Next time you’re injured, you should tell us before it gets that bad,” chides d’Artagnan. “I thought Athos was going to murder Bonnaire when you hit the ground.”  
  
“Bonnaire? What did he do?”  
  
“It’s his fault we were attacked on the road,” d’Artagnan says. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for him.”  
  
“I suppose that’s true…”  
  
Athos doesn’t look amused. “Speaking of Bonnaire, I hope you didn’t leave him with Porthos?” he asks d’Artagnan, tilting his head purposefully.  
  
“Oh! No, I tied him up and shackled him to the armoire in the bedchamber adjacent to ours. I might have accidentally rendered him unconscious.” D’Artagnan manages to look somewhat sheepish. “My hand slipped.”  
  
Aramis snorts a laugh, but thinks better of it as it jars his hurt ribs. “We should have done that to him a long while ago.”  
  
“Porthos seemed amused by his chatter, otherwise I would have recommended it from the start,” Athos replies. “Speaking of Porthos, how is he?”  
  
“He was still asleep, last I saw.” D’Artagnan shifts uncomfortably. “He looked pained, but didn’t seem to be feverish.”  
  
“I’m sure his back will be hurting him by now. The lack of a fever is a good sign,” Aramis says. He’d really like to go check on Porthos himself, but he has a feeling Athos won’t let him move from the bed yet. “He may wake soon. Someone should be with him when he does, and keep him from moving too much. I hope one of you fashioned a sling for him?”  
  
“I did, while Athos moved you in here,” d’Artagnan says.  
  
“Good lad.”  
  
Athos finally stands, adjusting his jacket as he glances around the room uneasily. “I will check on Porthos and make sure he isn’t stirring up trouble already. I swear, we have our hands full with the two of you.”  
  
“Athos,” Aramis says as Athos moves to leave. “Please don’t tell him what happened. I don’t want him to think it’s his fault.”  
  
Athos nods solemnly. “Only if you promise to not ignore your own injuries next time.”  
  
“I had to make sure he was okay first. He could have died, you know,” Aramis replies.  
  
“You will not be of help to someone else if you collapse too, Aramis.”  
  
“I know my limits.”  
  
Athos regards him seriously before he nods again. “Very well. But if we find ourselves in this situation again, I will leave you to rot on the floor.”  
  
Aramis grins. “Understood.”  
  
Athos puts a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder as he passes through the door. He looks a little confused at the exchange, but dips his head in acknowledgement. Once Athos is gone, d’Artagnan takes his place at the seat beside the bed.  
  
“D’Artagnan, remind me to teach you how to stitch,” Aramis says. “I shouldn’t be the only one in our group who knows how.”  
  
“What, are you planning on getting hurt again?” d’Artagnan asks wryly.  
  
“Not if I can help it,” Aramis replies lightly. “Unlike you, I’m not fond of pain.”  
  
D’Artagnan scoffs. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Oh, you know, fighting three fully-trained musketeers while you’re still injured, angering women enough to punch you—one starts to get the idea that you like it.”  
  
“I do not,” d’Artagnan says defensively.  
  
“It’s all right, lad—you know, they have a name for people like you,” Aramis says conspiratorially. “They don’t usually use it in a context outside bedchambers, but—”  
  
D’Artagnan’s on his feet with his hands over his ears before Aramis can blink. “I don’t want to know!”  
  
Aramis grins wickedly as d’Artagnan flees from the room. He starts to move to get up, but his ribs protest angrily, and he can hear Athos’ stern voice in the back of his head warning against the action, so he thinks better of it and settles back into the pillows. He thinks about his exchange with Athos—and he __had__ been truthful when he’d said he didn’t realize he’d been badly injured. He knew he was bruised, but he had no idea that he was on the verge of collapse. The pain had been shoved to the back of his mind in lieu of focusing on fixing his friend’s grave wound. But he had shoved the pain away willfully, and he knew that if he’d admitted sooner—both to himself and to the others—that he was injured, he could’ve avoided the embarrassment of fainting at their feet.  
  
They must think of him as a swooning damsel in distress, he thinks miserably. Then again, d’Artagnan had also done that (at __Madame Bonacieux__ ’s feet, no less), so perhaps he had some ammunition to use to deflect attention in case they tease him about it.  
  
For three more hours, he rests—until it's dark, and then after carefully moving to stand so that he can at least relieve himself, he shuffles like an old man to the drawing room, where Porthos is still asleep. Athos is stoking a fire and raises an eyebrow at Aramis as he enters, but doesn’t say anything. D’Artagnan is standing guard at the door, and Bonnaire, freed of his temporary bonds, relaxes at the table with his rescued schematics. Aramis leans over Porthos and gently checks the injury, relieved to see that it is no longer seeping blood nor showing signs of infection. Satisfied, he takes a chair near the fireplace and grimaces as he pulls his feet up onto the adjacent chair and leans back.  
  
“All right?” Athos asks casually.  
  
“All right,” Aramis agrees.  
  
He knows Athos isn’t entirely serious in his threats to leave him where he falls next time it happens. Because inevitably, it will happen again—it’s an occupational hazard, and as much as Aramis would like to promise to take better care of his own wounds, his friends’ well-being always comes first. Athos and the others will just have to deal with it.


End file.
